t place in the cool, fresh summer morning, he read the verses
aloud, slowly and carefully, rather repeating than reading them, for he
knew his chapter better by heart than by the printed letters in the book.
Thank God, Stephen Fern did begin to know it _by heart_!

It was not a bad day in the pit. All the colliers, men and boys, were
more gentle than usual with the fatherless lad; and even Black Thompson,
his master since his father's illness, who was in general a fierce bully
to everybody about him, spoke as mildly as he could to Stephen. Yet all
the day Stephen longed for his release in the evening, thinking how much
work there wanted doing in the garden, and how he and Martha must be busy
in it till nightfall. The clanking of the chain which drew him up to the
light of day sounded like music to him; but little did he guess that an
enemy was lying in wait for him at the mouth of the pit. 'Hillo!' cried a
voice down the shaft as they were nearing the top; 'one of you chaps have
got to carry a sack o' coals one mile.'

The voice belonged to Tim Cole, who was the terror of the pit-bank, from
his love of mischief and his insatiable desire for fighting. He was
looking down the shaft now, with a grin and a laugh upon his red face,
round which his shaggy red hair hung like a rough mane. There were only
two other boys besides Stephen in the skip, and as their fathers were
with them it might be dangerous to meddle with them; so Tim fixed upon
Stephen as his prey.

'Thee has got to carry these coals, Steve,' he said, his eyes dancing
with delight.

'I won't,' replied Stephen.

'Thee shalt,' cried Tim, with an oath.

'I won't,' Stephen repeated stedfastly.

'Then we'll fight for it,' said Tim, clenching his fists and squaring his
arms, while the men and boys formed a ring round the two lads, and one
and another spoke encouragingly to Stephen, who was somewhat slighter and
younger than Tim. He had beaten Tim once before, but that was months ago;
yet the blood rushed into Stephen's face, and he set his lips together
firmly. Up yonder, just within the range of his sight, was Fern's Hollow,
with its neglected garden, and his supper waiting for him; and here was
the heavy sack of coals to be carried for a mile, or the choice of
fighting with Tim.

'I wish I knew what I ought to do,' he said, speaking aloud, though
speaking to himself.

'Ay, ay, lad,' cried Black Thompson; 'it's a shame to make thee fight,
and thy father no